


Circles and Spirals

by calculatingMinutiae



Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [2]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Gen, Ghost!Allister, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculatingMinutiae/pseuds/calculatingMinutiae
Summary: ????, Glimwood TangleThere's something about isolation that makes it come naturally to you. It isn't always a good thing.(Takes place between Fool Me Once and Attachments Made Out of Light.)
Series: The Ghost of Glimwood Tangle [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576204
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	Circles and Spirals

**Author's Note:**

> Coverart: https://2sp00ky.tumblr.com/post/190108897310/maybe-if-you-pretend-it-isnt-an-issue-itll-go

You have no idea how long you've been wandering. Travelling in circles, spirals through the undergrowth without running into another soul. Your calls for help have gone unheard, so far as you can tell, and against your better judgement you are drawn further in to the nonsensical topography of the forest.

You've tried awaiting your rescue, looking through the trees for some semblance of the difference between day and night, but either weeks sped up to feel like seconds or moments slowed to a crawl, and your patience simply couldn't stand up to your nerves. You  _ had to _ get up,  _ had to _ move, had to avoid the pulpy snapping sounds near the spot where you lay for so long (or not very long at all).

You'd thought yourself smarter than this, really. You were a good child. A good child, you always did as you were told, you always obeyed your parents' instructions, you _ earned _ your place, surely. At the very least, you'd tried. Bedtime stories and horror stories whispered around you told of what happened to the curious, the disobedient, the foolish and unwise; tragedy, more often than not, at the hands of their own hubris. Not you. That was all you had in you to offer, really; you wouldn't be one of the  _ bad ones _ . You wouldn't be any trouble, not at all, you would be beyond a shadow of a doubt what any adult would have to consider  _ Correct _ , and that alone would overshadow your paranormal companions, your hobbies, the way acknowledgement and interaction with spirits all too often touted as  _ wicked _ or  _ spiteful _ is infused in your nature. So long as you are a good child, even in spite of your violet eyes, you'll still be plenty presentable. As long as you keep your head down, take notes on when to speak and when to stay silent, do exactly as you are told when you are told, nothing could possibly run astray. (Somebody will let you in, and they will be in your hands, and they will keep things steady and stable for the rest of your life.)

Until you'd made yourself so afraid of failing that you'd become lost in the woods chasing a damn  _ teacup _ , of all things. You haven't even found it either, letting a special cup with a special stamp (the last remaining vestiges of a woman you never knew) outweigh your worth to the household. You should have been smart. You could have dumped the tea while you had the chance, but instead you watched with baited breath just to see if the rumors were true. You have yet to come up with an effective contingency plan for, say, getting the sinistea out of the teacup peacefully, besides begging for it to come back with you.

"Back" is now in any number of directions, considering you have strayed so far from your original position that you are amazed you haven't found yourself across the entire region. You're beginning to think that this forest really is tied in knots, tangled upon itself over and over without any sort of escape. It's like a Shadow Tag, only your adversary is the environment and it had already swallowed you whole before you could have tried to fight it.

You don't want to fight. You want to go home.

You just wanted things to be good, now. Things were supposed to be better, you were supposed to have things under control, or at the very least be on the best sides of the people in control. None of this turbulence, none of this not knowing where you are or how long it's been or why you can hardly feel the soft green grass under your feet anymore. In small ways, you are aware. You know it's been more than a minute, more than five minutes, but the line between hours and days eludes you; you know you're still in the Tangle, still in Galar, and still, theoretically, neighboring Stow-on-side. Your feet are just numb from all of the walking, and you've become too used to the sting of your overactive nerves to be bothered by it, anymore. You have simply built a tolerance. There is no sense in complaining. If you are to remain a good child, not a bad, shameful, foolish child, a child no one would dare let waste away or fall into the claws of chaos and noise and overstimulation, you must follow instructions.

Since you have no instructions, you must forge on.

And on.

And….

Your instructions, you decide, would probably sound something like "stand still", at this rate. If you don't move, then any search party the town dregs up will be forced to run into you eventually. Moving, at this point, is only wasting more time, more resources, and more effort. Your father will be furious when he finds you. You won't deserve his forgiveness, either, for this latest undesired transgression. First you dared to exist in a world where she didn't, and now it's as though you aren't even  _ thankful _ for that sacrifice, of life for life, flippantly throwing yourself away over a trinket. You should have taken whatever punishment would have come from letting that cup (she loved them, her precious tea set; it's one of the few things you've been told about her. She bled out before she could have possibly decided to love you more.) Things are the best they'll be for you for a while, then. With no sinistea in sight, no signs of the way back to civilization, and no indication of the hour.

You stop at a hole beneath a tree to hide away from the nonexistent elements, and lull yourself to sleep.

You do not dream.

*

When you wake up, time is just as malleable as it was before.

The forest looks largely the same, but there's an aching feeling in your bones that something is…  _ different _ . It's something intangible, mostly because tangible stimuli don't really make sense to you right now. You imagine you must have slept on your side weird, because you cannot feel the grass and gravel beneath you when you gently drag your hand along the ground. It doesn't seem particularly hot, nor is it cold, but it isn't temperate either; there is simply an absence that creeps into your being instead, with only the slightest idea that you're now sitting upright.

It might be against your better judgement, but you feel compelled to pick yourself back up. Moving is a lot easier than you're used to, much more fluid, with fewer sharp angles and misaligned pieces. It's almost more natural, here in the middle of Glimwood, than it has been until now. If you really lean back and sense it, there is no wheeze embedded in your chest, anymore. Then again, your chest isn't moving  _ at all, _ but surely your breaths are just much too shallow to feel through this large of a coat. Truly, you feel  _ wonderful _ (and will keep repeating so under your breath until you no longer have to convince yourself of it.)

The calls of the spritzee migrating overhead concur, delicate chirps taking on a much more commanding tone coming from a proper flock. Something about the shine of the mushrooms gleaming off of their soft pink plumage beckons more than staying still and stagnant in a hole in the ground, and before you know it you're running after them.

They flit carelessly from tree to tree without looking back. You suppose it would be hard to see around their sizable pointed beaks, which you can't imagine are terribly helpful for much. When one takes a moment to pause, you're captivated by the way the dim lights shine against its deep red iris.

It is very still. Graceful, you'd say, in a way few things are. You'd have run off to play by now, sure, but your boundless youthful energy is beyond your reach, now. Part of you is hypnotized by the way the bird ruffles its feathers, and the rest is too numb to argue. You're fairly certain spritzee are supposed to smell good, or at least that you'd been told as much. Whatever sweet scent elutes from its beaks in waves from the powder on its wings, you can't actually perceive it. Disappointing.

You're so caught up in the lack of sensation that it catches you off guard when the spritzee lunges forth on the branch it's chosen, spiking its beak into the tree bark to snatch up creatures unseen. The slow ooze of green slime from the dent tells you that you may not want to.

Yet you are drawn further into the forest.

*

You have been walking for what might be months, might be minutes, but has steadily become too long. You are sick of chasing after spritzee, their whims beyond your understanding or prediction, because they haven’t actually  _ gotten you anywhere. _ They haven’t flown you towards the forest’s mouth, nor have they led you to a patch where it would be at all convenient to stop and rest, but you’ve only tread in circles upon circles and can no longer quite tell which way is down. You dare to let gravity take over and answer that mystery for you, but even your sense of position has been thrown out of whack by the thrall of this place. You, no matter how brave you tell yourself to be, start to panic. You  _ have _ to get home again. You  _ have _ to see your father again, and your home, and the way the wind whistles by the cliffside when it skims over the crags in dead and drying land, you want to see the stars and how lovely they are, watching over you in the night, always guiding and present and  _ there _ . Nobody is here but the high-pitched wails from between trees of creatures unknown, and you want it to stop. You want it to stop. You want it to stop, right now.

It’s dizzying. Your vision is losing its fragile composure, and you can see into copies upon copies of reality lain before you. There’s a freezing chill that scorches its way up your spine, weighing heavily on your shoulders, until you are so, so sure you will be sick. You didn’t even have breakfast, that morning, too enamoured with the tea springing new life in a stagnant pool. You are not ready to deal with acid and bile shooting into your sinuses alongside the overwhelming feeling of  _ nnnno, ‘d rather not, _ so you bite your cheek in hopes it will block the flood.

You can’t feel that, either. 

You black out. 

*

When you wake up again, not only do you not recall the time, but you are positive that you have never seen this part of the forest before. The surrounding mist catches the light, glazing the atmosphere a milky blue-white that simply  _ looks _ cold to the touch. You cannot confirm nor deny it. 

You sit up, only to find your legs precariously dangling over what you'd assumed to be ground, but upon further inspection looks like… a tree stump? 

Almost as quickly as the concept hits you, you begin to sink. Slowly, down into the stump, you're up to your chest before you can wrestle your way free and lunge towards the grass before you. 

There's a tiny, disappointed sigh beside you. 

You look up with a violent violet intensity to your eyes; tears flow around the edges, but don't dare to fall. Glowing purple pupils meet glowing red, but a soft red, nearly pink, really. They belong to a being not too different than you, so it seems, aside from being a pokemon and all. The phantump smiles when you take the time to look at it, waving with one tiny nub of a hand. It reaches out, and points at you. 

It points at you, a little more insistent.

_ Oh, _ you think.  _ You want a handshake. _

It squeals with delight in C6 register, and suddenly you think you understand where all of the wailing was coming from. 

"Y…," you try to speak, but it's as though your tongue has forgotten how. You force yourself to cough, dredging up only a thin film of black slime. You swallow it back and swear to yourself that you absolutely Will Not think about it any further. Maybe if you pretend it isn't an issue, it'll go away. 

You sigh, try again. "I-it, it's dark out here, huh?"

_ Dark. Very dark. Colony likes the dark. Very safe.  _

"... Safe?" 

_ They live under the mushrooms. Light light light. Don't like the light. Not safe.  _

", , Ah. T-hank you, I suppose. W, What are you called, then?" 

_ Phantump.  _

"Don't you have a name?"

_ Name is phantump. _

"O-oh… well. ‘M Allister, I guess.”

_ Allister! Allister is a human name. _

“Very human, yeah. Last anybody told me, anyways.”

_ Such strange names, humans. _

“Well, people seem to like it that way. It’s much easier to tell who is who, then.”   
  
_ In the colony, everyone is phantump.  _

“Oh, dear. Isn’t that terribly confusing?”

_ We like it that way. _

“I suppose such a mischievous little spirit would, hmm?” 

_ You could be phantump too. _

“W-What?”

_ And we can play together!  _

“I don’t under—”

_ Play! Play! Play!! _

“We can play now, can’t we?”

_ You looked so sad. So sad, human. Humans are so sad. When humans are phantumps they aren’t sad anymore. Can join the colony, and we play forever. _

“I-I’m not  _ sad _ , even if I was it isn’t up to you to—”

_ All the humans are so sad. So sad, and they sit here and cry, until they’re phantump too. Then they don’t remember why they were sad anymore. Then they can be happy.  _

“You were human?”

_ Some of us. _

You think for a moment, looking down at mud-caked white shoes. 

“Well, playing may be nice, but I’m on a mission, you see. If I don’t make it back to Stow-on-side, it’s not just me who’s gonna be sad.”

_ Have your own colony? _

“Something like that.”

_ Phantump knows Stow-on-side! Phantump knows Stow-on-side! The nice lady throws me crumbs off toast! She’s a bit confused but I like it! _

“You know where Stow-on-side is?”

_ Phantump can show human Allister! Phantump can show human Allister! Then we play another day, okay? _

“Sounds like fun… lead the way, phantump.”

*

Phantump takes their sweet time guiding you to the edge of the thicket. It doesn’t help that they periodically get distracted by the bright colors of the Tangle’s foliage, tackling piles of sticks and leaves just to hear the  _ crunch _ they make as they crush against one another. You suppose it would be less obtrusive if your ghostly companion, say, had  _ feet _ or  _ an ounce of self-control _ , but you politely nod and say nothing of the sort. 

It almost, after long enough of spectating, looks like it might be fun. You stomp your foot particularly hard, on this next step, hopping a little bit to build some momentum. 

You should have known your foot would pass harmlessly through. 

_ What’s that, Allister? _

“Nothing, why?” You smile so slightly in the monotone you’re slowly becoming accustomed to, agreeable while agreeing to nothing, hollow yet amenable. 

_ Why didn’t you do the crunch? _

“Nothing to it, phantump. ‘Can do that when we’re back in Stow-on-side.”

_ You gotta think real hard if you want to touch it. _

You blink, not really considering this. What could a  _ thought  _ possibly do to your current state of  _ existence? _

Naturally you have to try it. 

You squint at your hand, squint at it hard, stopping before one of many,  _ many _ massive aspen trees. You focus your full attention into a single gesture, a single  _ shove _ with all your negligible body weight, and when you open your eyes you.

You’re stuck in the tree, or rather the tree has rather rudely situated through your torso, and phantump is  _ laughing hysterically _ . 

You kind of want to . Well, again? No,  _ no,  _ this is not happening. It is not, and as long as that remains in your mind, you will be alright, or at least as alright as you need to be. 

You do cover your face with your hands, though, content to just stay there on a pike for the indeterminate future (re: until phantump grows bored of picking on you and floats away.) Instead, it pulls you back through the tree, the cross-section of the plant flashing before your eyes as it phases through your face. You blink, blink again, but receive no more clarity. 

_ Come on human Allister. You have much to learn. Your human colony will help you. _

You keep your hands covering your face, and nod.

*

This is not Stow-on-side.

No, this is not  _ Galar _ as you remember it, this tinsel-town made of silver and gold, dirt paths plowed through the streets now filling with the rattle of machinery. There are bright lights and glowing signs, poles alongside the walkways that hoist beacons into the sky and blot out the stars, what stars there may have been. It’s too loud, for your rural mountain town, too bright. They’ve shaped the very form of the earth beneath the buildings, a slope where there was only sheer cliff before. 

You can see, if you squint, distant silhouettes of what you can only surmise are  _ people _ , the unmodest kind, the kind with big furry hats and gaudy sequins, suits and ties in colors you did not know fabric could be, it is  _ loud _ and they are  _ loud _ and your brain does not like it. Your brain does not like it at all, and you tell it to  _ shush _ inside of your head. You can’t keep your eyes on it any longer, overflowing with defensive tears. 

_ What’s wrong, human Allister? Why aren’t you going home? _

“This isn’t Stow-on-side. Must be a mistake. I must be dreaming,” you rationalize, eyes open and tears dissolving into trails of vapor. You  _ laugh _ , just a little, tangling your fingers in your hair. “Dreaming! That’s why I’m still here, innit? Of course,  _ of course _ that must be, it, any minute I’ll wake up in my own bed, and it’ll all be fine.” 

_ Allister, I don’t think— _

“ _ Dreaming, _ ” you say, with a sense of finality. You will not hear otherwise, meandering back into the breadth of the Tangle. 

_ Okay. We’ll see you later, yeah? _

Phantump turns to look at you, but you’ve already disappeared.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Allister woke up some time in the 1920s, though he never quite finds out.
> 
> Some fun bits and pieces: 
> 
> \- Recall the events of part 1 during the opening and revel in fridge horror
> 
> \- Sections 7 to 9 (particularly 9) of Allister's concept art have some kind of ghost essence (?) coming from his mask, presumably because it's a fun design, but it's taken literally here


End file.
